The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s history now.”

  “You never remarried?”

  “Nah, man, are you kidding? With this job and all the traveling I do, it’s definitely for the best that I stay single.”

  Monty furrowed his brow as if he was considering that for himself, weighing what a big decision that actually was. I had made it sound so simple—as if being alone was weightless and easy and exactly as it should be for a detective. No questions asked, spoken like a teenager with the world before him. “That’s a pretty big sacrifice,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not as hard as you think. It’s not like I’m meeting lifelong potential mates that I’m having to turn away constantly.”

  Monty blew out a stream of air again. “Marriages are hard. They’re really hard. No one tells you that when you’re young. Even when you watch your own parents go through their shit, you think it will be different for you, riding off into the sunset and all, but then you end up making a mess of everything in spite of your best intentions.”

  I sat quietly in case he wanted to continue, wondering what kind of mess Monty—Mr. Tidy—could possibly make.

  “I mean, it’s not like she didn’t know my deal when we got married.”

  “Your deal?”

  “That I didn’t want to start a family.”

  “Because of your work?” I couldn’t imagine his duties at Ford’s desk somehow precluding him from raising a family, but then he said, “No, that’s not it.”

  “So that was the thing—the last straw?”

  Monty nodded. “I guess that’s a big part of it, but it’s never really just one thing.” Monty flicked his finger over the edge of the window control.

  “Why don’t you want to have kids?” I wanted to add that I thought he was definitely the father type. Careful, controlled, and thoughtful. Maybe too serious, but kids would probably loosen him up a bit, make him giggle and laugh, but I didn’t. I thought of Ryan in his dad’s lap, tickling him under his armpits, and Ian’s huge smile and bursting laughter.

  Monty shrugged, a sliver of a shadow suddenly inserting itself into the air between us, mostly settling on him, for a change. Since I’d stepped foot on this case, I felt that shadow cling to me like resin. “That’s a whole other story,” he said.

  I looked down the empty drive. “Looks like we’ve got time.”

  He continued to flick at the control. “Let’s just say I don’t trust my family line.”

  “What, your dad into alcohol or something?”

  Monty laughed. “Oh, hell, yeah he’s into alcohol. I wish that was the only issue.”

  Again, I waited, looking down the road. The shadow settled back between us, and I thought maybe Monty would offer more, but decided it best not to pry. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see Monty shaking his head slowly. “Nah, this issue tends to skip a generation and go right to your offspring.”

  “Oh,” I said, “that sounds fairly serious.” I glanced at him, then looked back down the road, nonchalantly rolling my quarter again.

  “It’s serious enough to not fool around with.” Monty followed my gaze down the drive. He didn’t offer any more, and I didn’t ask. We sat silently for another moment or two, the quiet needling me and making me fidget. I shoved down the stubborn little voice telling me I was an idiot for mentioning my private life with Shelly to anyone other than my family. I started to pull out my phone to check to make sure it wasn’t on silent mode and that I hadn’t missed any important calls, when a silver car suddenly turned onto the drive. Monty sat taller, and I put my quarter in my pocket. We both opened our doors and stepped out.

  Lewis and Leslie got out of the car and Leslie ordered him to go in and change out of his dobok. She opened her trunk and grabbed a bag of groceries. She looked better than the last time we saw her, as if she’d put on a pound or two and her hair seemed—I wouldn’t say shinier—but at least less dull and less stringy.

  “Need some help?” Monty offered.

  She didn’t answer immediately, just studied us with suspicion. “Why are you here?”

  “We were hoping to speak to Lewis.”

  “Lewis? What for?”

  We explained that it was nothing serious and that we just wanted to speak to him since he was involved with Victor, even minimally. “It’s perfectly fine for you to be present,” I said. “Although if you were okay with it, I have Officer Harris here with me since it’s procedure to not speak to a minor alone, and the two of us could talk to him if you have other things you need to be doing.”

  She eyed us both, suspicion fully returning to her face. “What are you going to ask him?”

  “The usual. How long he knew Victor, if he liked him, and if he didn’t, why not?”

  “I can answer all that. He knew him the amount of time I had him in our lives, and no, I don’t think he particularly liked him.”

  “And I’m sure he’ll say the same, but again, if this ever gets to court, we need to have it on record that we spoke to all of the people who were involved in Victor’s life.”

  “That’s a bunch of shit.” She set the bag of groceries back in the trunk and looked at the front door Lewis had just entered. Then she grabbed at her purse around her shoulder, and I was thinking she wanted to get a cigarette or her Bible or both. “What does my son have to do with any of this?”

  “So you’re not giving us permission to speak to him?”

  Leslie brought her free hand to her mouth and chewed her fingernails.

  “I’m kind of thinking that you don’t want it going on record that you wouldn’t let us talk to him, that you maybe were afraid—”

  “I’m not afraid.” She let go of her purse, letting it swing back under her arm, and picked up the grocery bag again.

  “Here, let us help you with those,” I offered again.

  She nodded and we each grabbed two paper bags and carried them into her kitchen and set them on the counter. Even the mobile smelled less stale than it had the week before. Immediately, she grabbed a cigarette out of a pack that she’d retrieved from her purse and lit it and deeply inhaled, her cheeks going hollow.

  “Lewis just came from a Tae Kwan Do meet in Columbia Falls at the high school,” she said proudly. “I was just there.” She seemed to calm considerably with the cigarette, even wore a small smile as she described her whereabouts, perhaps pleased that she was acting like a normal mom attending her child’s event. “My sister was there too.”

  “Your sister—she teaches Lewis, right?” I didn’t think it wise to bring up the fact that we had a chummy dinner with Leslie’s ma and pa the night before, given the strain between them all.

  “That’s right.” Leslie set her cigarette down in an ashtray. “She’s certified to do that. You know, black belt and all. And Lewis loves it. It’s, it’s probably a good thing for him.” She picked her cigarette back up.

  “Leslie,” I said softly so Lewis couldn’t hear from his room, and my voice must have resonated a seriousness because she looked at me, fear in her eyes, “did Victor ever hurt Lewis?”

  Her eyes stayed wide and she glanced at Monty, then back to me. “No, no, sir. He just hurt me. He never touched Lewis. Thank God.”

  • • •

  Finally, Leslie agreed to let us chat with Lewis and we offered to wait outside. He came out in a pair of high-water jeans, old, ripped sneakers, and a blue jacket in need of a washing. I thought I detected a slight limp. “Hey, you hurt yourself at your meet?”

  “A little,” he said. “My aunt says I’ve just pulled a hamstring.”

  “You did that while sparring?”

  “Yeah, I felt something while I was kicking, but it didn’t seem bad at the time. It got worse later. My aunt gave me some cream for it.”

  “At your age,” Monty said, “that should heal rig
ht up.”

  “Have a seat, Lewis.” I motioned to the porch step and he sat down on the dirty green turf covering the step, not looking like his leg was too stiff. Monty and I sat on one of the porch steps as well. “How did you do in your meet?”

  “Okay, I lost one round and won two.”

  “Awesome,” I said. “That’s great. Hey, do you know who we are and why we’re here?”

  “Yeah, you were at my grandparents. You’re working with my grandpa—the guys investigating Victor’s death.” He picked up a twig off one of the steps.

  “That’s right. In case you forgot our names. This is Officer Harris.” I gestured to Monty. “And myself: Agent Systead.”

  He gave a small nod.

  “And since your mom dated Victor for a while and since you knew him too, it’s standard procedure for us to talk to most people who knew him, sometimes even when they knew him only for a little bit.”

  Lewis rubbed the twig between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Did you like Victor?”

  “He was all right.”

  “Did you do a lot with him?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged. “He was over here a lot when my mom was with him.”

  “Was he nice to you?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Sometimes we played cards and stuff. Sometimes watched TV.”

  I glanced at Monty. I’d forgotten how difficult it could be to question a kid. It could either be really simple because they could ramble on and give you all sorts of interesting bits of information without even asking for it, or they could do the opposite, answer with short clips with many quiet spaces between. I looked back at Lewis, at his wavy, blond hair that I figured he’d either gotten from his dad or from his grandfather. He definitely had Leslie’s and his grandmother’s large, dark eyes. I momentarily felt a wave of gratitude flow through me that I had had a father for fourteen years. “And you liked him and your mom together?”

  With the twig, he started sketching imaginary shapes on the faded green turf covering the step.

  “Lewis?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Sometimes he could be pretty angry,” he mumbled, his head down.

  “You mean, lose his temper?”

  He nodded.

  “And what was that like?”

  He shrugged and looked up at me. “Kind of scary, but it would always blow over and they’d make up. He usually lost it when he was drinking a lot.”

  “Did you see him hurt your mother?”

  “I guess.” He lowered his gaze to his stick again.

  “How so?”

  “Slaps and stuff. Sometimes he’d twist her arm.”

  “And did you tell anyone about it?”

  “Victor said I’d get into trouble if I did. He said he didn’t mean to hit her. I was kind of glad when they broke up, though. I like Paul better.”

  “I probably would too.”

  “Did you know Victor?” His eyes were curious.

  “No, no, but I’ve heard a lot about him. I know he could be kind of volatile.”

  “Volatile?”

  “Yeah, angry. Fly off the handle, like you said.”

  He nodded and went back to drawing shapes.

  “Did he ever hurt you in any way?”

  He stared at his shapes, kept drawing. “Can you tell what this is?”

  I squinted at the step. “Do it again.”

  He drew the shape again.

  “A flower?”

  “Nope. You?” He pointed at Monty with the twig.

  “Let me see it again,” Monty said, and Lewis drew it two more times.

  “A guitar?”

  Lewis smiled a gap-toothed grin and nodded excitedly. “How about this?” He drew a different one.

  “How about you finish answering Agent Systead’s questions and then I’ll guess again?”

  Lewis glanced at me, and I asked again: “Did Victor ever hurt you?”

  He looked down and shook his head.

  “Did you ever hear of anyone talking about hurting Victor?”

  “Nope,” he said and drew another shape. “What’s this?” he said to Monty.

  “An airplane?”

  Lewis smiled and nodded again.

  • • •

  When Heather returned after feeding the horses, I was waiting for her. The door to her house was unlocked, but I stood outside politely, watching her out in the field. She was carrying a large bale of hay and setting it down for a mule in an enclosed area near the barn. When she finished, a dog trotted crookedly beside her as she walked up a gravel road from a faded barn. It was evening, and the sun’s rays shot under the chrome-colored cloud cover, illuminating Heather’s hair and turning the hay field stretching away from the wooden fence along the road golden.

  When she spotted me standing there, she cocked her head to the side, her blond mane falling to one shoulder. I could tell she was squinting, trying to make out who I was. I held up my hand. “Hello,” I called out. “It’s Systead.”

  She nodded but didn’t change her pace as the dog, which I could make out was a type of border collie, black and white with a little brown on his pointy snout, ran toward me with a pronounced limp, but its tail wagging.

  “I saw your car here.” I held my hand out for the collie to smell, then pet the crown of his head, knobby under my palm. “So I knew you must be around.” She was tall, maybe five-eleven, and I could see she was muscular from hauling hay, working the land, teaching martial arts.

  “Welcome to my place.” She pushed her hair off her shoulder and smiled a small, nervous smile as she came closer.

  Suddenly the same shyness I felt at Joe’s washed over me, so much so that I felt the need to look away for a moment. I glanced down at the collie. “What happened to him?”

  “Got in the mule’s area. Learned his lesson not to taunt her.”

  “I guess so. Poor guy.” I knelt down and stroked behind his ear.

  “Fractured his spine. He couldn’t walk for a few days, but he’s doing better and better. Swimming helps a lot. The doctor says to keep him moving.” She pushed some hair behind an ear. “How can I help you?”

  I refocused on why I’d come. “I thought I’d swing by to ask you a few questions about your sister, you know, just to try to cover all angles regarding Victor Lance.” I stood back up, and the collie scratched my leg with his front paw for more attention. Heather snapped her fingers. “He’s okay.” I scratched behind his ear again. “I spoke to your mother earlier today, and she mentioned that you and Leslie are fairly close.”

  Heather shrugged. “As close as you can be to a lying addict. But yeah, I suppose. She’s my sister after all. Would you like to come inside?”

  “That’d be nice.” I took off my cap and peered across the stubby hay field to a line of tall pine and cottonwood trees in the distance that I knew stood by the bank of the Flathead River. “You own up to the river?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be hard work.” For someone on her own, I thought but didn’t say and thought of her mother smiling and saying that she dated once in a while.

  “I manage all right. The horses graze the field. The winter’s tough, keeping them fed and exercised. Sometimes I hire a little help if things get crazy. I need help with harvesting the hay, and keeping the weeds back in the spring and summer gets to be a full-time job.” She walked up the porch steps and opened a sliding glass door that led directly into a small mudroom off of the kitchen. Open shelving stood on one side and was cluttered with tack, tools, different-size rucksacks, water bottles, flashlights . . . “Sorry about the mess.” She removed her heavy boots, her jacket, and told me that it was fine for me to keep my shoes on.

  The house, an old farmhouse, was modest with old, dated linol
eum countertops, oak cabinetry, and a tiled kitchen floor that looked as if it had been redone more recently. She motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table and asked if I’d like something: tea, a beer, coffee. I told her I had a late lunch and didn’t need a thing. She grabbed herself a beer, took a seat across from me, and pushed more blond strands of hair behind her ear again.

  “You’ve lived here long?” I asked.

  “’Bout five years. I lived closer to Columbia Falls before that. After my divorce, I was happy to get some acreage and the horses.”

  “Similar to your folks’ spread?”

  “I guess so, yeah. It’s what I grew up with. I like the space.”

  I was deciding whether to ask about her marriage or about Leslie, but a part of me simply wanted her to talk about her life, to let her take the lead and fill me in about living alone near the Flathead River with a dog and horses and a couple head of cattle. But she didn’t say anything, just stared at me with her green, unreadable eyes and dark eyebrows. I thought I noticed tiny flecks of gold reflecting in the light. “This business with Victor Lance,” I said, “did you ever spend time with Leslie and him?”

  “I was around them a few times. Sometimes they’d bring Lewis over to hang out with me while they’d go to do something.” She began picking at the corner of its label.

  “Lewis. He’s a sweet boy.”

  Heather nodded. “He’s a good kid. Deserves better than the mom he got, but she’s doing her best to stay clean, and I think things are going pretty well. He’s doing better in school now that things are a little more stable. How did it go with him?”

  “Oh fine. Perfectly fine.” I gave a half smile. “Was he not doing so well before?”

  “He struggled for a bit, as you’d expect with a mom who goes through stages of not being very”—she shrugged—“present or tuned in to her child’s needs. Leslie’s does her best, but she’s sick. Call it narcissism, addiction, or bipolar disorder—I don’t know what the hell the label is. She’s been called it all. All I know is that when you get hooked on drugs when you’re a teen, in my opinion, it seems to screw up your chemical makeup forever. Warps your mind, makes you immature, unable to cope well, always putting your own needs first like a teenager.”